


Little Bird

by FloodFeSTeR



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Begging, Blood and Gore, Consent Issues, Control Issues, Dom/sub, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forced, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Orgasm, Forced Relationship, Minor Violence, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Repressed Memories, Rough Body Play, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Roughness, Sexual Repression, Triggers, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6473791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloodFeSTeR/pseuds/FloodFeSTeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You let me violate your justice.<br/>You let me desecrate what you love.<br/>You let me penetrate your soul.<br/>You let me complicate who you are.<br/>You think you can still be free?<br/>Think again.<br/>I own your soul.<br/>You can't escape from that."</p><p>She'd been content on the Hilltop, had gotten good at brushing off Gregory's advances but staying in his good graces.</p><p>And then she meets Negan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters are limited but I can't decide on that limit just yet. Enjoy still, check the tags for triggers and give it some love ❤

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her name is pronounced Chee - law for some reason

A lot of people start with what they did before the apocalypse, how they had lived some unassuming life or something close to that when it all fell apart.

Government officials rolled out first, civilians quarantined behind walls of tanks and corrupt military, the dead taking over like the flu in a cancer ward.

But Csilla never thought about -- okay, okay that would be a total fucking lie to say she _never_ thought about her life before the apocalypse. She did wonder about her dog, if her politician momma thought to grab the poor thing up when she had her own daughter blocked from the estate.

One reason Csilla didn't think about her life before; momma was a bitch, daddy was a drunk, typical family in upstate New York even if no one was going to admit it. Corruption and family went hand-in-hand as if they were meant for each other, Csilla would have loved to spill her mommas secrets, her daddy's, even her brother's because of how shitty he was when she tried to befriend him.

No, she didn't care to think pre-apocalypse style.

But mainly, Csilla thought about post-apocalypse, and she was lucky she didn't have to think about most things that came with it like starving, the dead or even human obstacles. They always had food, no one ever tried to come after them. . .

She stares out the window on days like this, when its gloomy and cold outside, which it seems to be on the regular these days.

She sighs and looks down at her fingers, flexes them to make the fat blue stone glimmer in the fire from her lamp on the windowsill in front of her. She'd had that thing for so long, she was surprised she had managed to keep up with it through the apocalypse.

Gregory was happy she had a bit of a vain streak in her, because she had stolen it for strictly aesthetic purposes. He crooned over her appearance when he flirted with her and the ring made a funny imprint on his cheek when she accidently reached back too fast and hit him with it. The ring just _brought her together_ , he said, and he didn't give two shits about her personality behind it.

And, to be honest, her personality had went to shit when her own momma had locked her out of the family home when the military rolled in.

Piece of shit only ever cared about herself anyway.

And Csilla was falling into the family tradition around here, being stuck inside most days with a creepy old man that treated her like a pretty houseplant.

She wanted to tear his eyes out.

But, he had her trapped, ya see, because Csilla knew she wasn't fit for living outside of those high walls and he had threatened her not-so subtly about how he would throw her outside the moment she said she wanted her own place in an RV, or even a tent.

And Csilla wanted to survive, dammit, even if that meant dealing with roaming hands.

She remembered Jesus finding her while he was looking for a lost patrol. He had been scavenging in a gas station and she had been hiding in the broom closet, scared and weak, nothing but bones and bloody skin. It had taken him a full day to get her out of the closet, another to get her to the Hilltop. Then she had been scrubbed down, wrung out, introduced and painted up like an old state wife.

Her mother would be proud, perhaps.

Proud she was embracing her roots, even if it was the wrong place and the wrong time, wrong situation. Because momma had always wanted her to follow in her footsteps, and Csilla was pretty good at talking shit like her momma, but backing it up? That was definitely something she hadn't inherited because Csilla could never backup those words she spat.

Also, she got tongue tied alot, so she wasn't that bad of a bitch as her mother, which was something the old bat had flaunted all the time.

_Self-righteous. . ._

She jumps when something cracks out of the corner of her eyes and sees the gate parting, a tense gathering picking off of the gardens where everyone works to fix what the rain damaged. She doesn't know these trucks pulling in, but she does know Jesus and his well worn beanie shuffling past the edge of the roof Csilla has view of.

Her heart leaps into her throat at the sight of so many men - beefy men, with guns too - and she pushes out of the chair she's sitting in. It creaks against the hardwood and she knows she'll for sure be in trouble for that but Jesus --

She stops at the top of the stairs when she sees Gregory in the doorway of his office. He's adjusting the sleeve of his sweater and staring at the floor, fear in his annoying face. And he was a coward, there was no doubt about it, but she has never actually seen him look worried; he always had that selfish, narcissistic confidence around him when it came to confrontation.

He looks up at her when one of the floorboards squeaks and there's selfish panic in his eyes when he waves a hand at her. "Go upstairs, now," he orders and she narrows her eyes at him. "Don't give me that look -- _he's_ here!"

She opens her mouth, gets ready to say something, snap back as she always does because she isn't a dog to order around like he wants her to be, but the doors slams open and there's Jesus so she shuts up. Plus, he's flanked by those men, the ones that immediately hone in on her and their eyes pant when their mouth's don't, as if they hadn't seen a woman in years when she knows she saw at least one in the back of that truck they have near the gate.

Jesus lets his eyes flicker up to her as he steps beside Gregory, who is all smiles and welcoming the men with a sweaty brow, asking them about their day and they actually go with it, crack a few smiles and joke. Like they aren't terrifying, like there isn't a plague of the dead roaming around them, like they don't have guns in their hands.

Csilla grips the railing tight, her knuckles white as she watches Jesus, someone she wants by her side right this instant. He is comfort, he is safe, he is easy, he is an anchor in this Hell hole which was why he was named but he keeps his head bowed and hands crossed in front of him.

When did he become the submissive pup?

He wasn't a confrontational person, another reason he was named so, but she hadn't seen him ever lower his chin.

"I'll give it to ya, Gregory," Csilla jumps and looks to the door, the new arrival. "Sure know how to keep a place pretty," he grins.

He doesn't really look at her -- well, of course he does looks at her, he looks at her hard. But there's no hint of lust, concern, intensity and its fast. There is a curiosity beside a decent amount of impassiveness to his expressions, his rugged, graying stubble that lines his jaw, thicker around his upper lip. Slicked back hair and a leather jacket, he looked like a bad boy from the fifties save for that baseball bat on his shoulder. Wrapped around it like gangly teeth was barbed wire, the wood stained with bloody curves.

His face evens out from that cocky smile and she swears he winks at her before he turns and files into Gregory's office, the man in tow.

The door clicks shut, the lobby falls silent, no one is moving, a man or two are staring at Csilla, and then they're staring at Jesus because he's walking towards her, up the stairs and she catches his hand before he can even think about it. There's an air of disappointment she leaves behind, hears it with the clicks between their teeth, and she's so happy that didn't last any longer than it did.

"You shouldn't have come down," is the first thing Jesus says when she shut the door behind them.

She gives him a bewildered look. "Excuse me for being worried about you," she furrows her brow. "You being the only person I can stand around here comes with some hindrance from me."

He doesn't chuckle at her attempt for a joke, he just keeps that same stressed look on his face and sits in her seat by the window. Csilla rolls her eyes a little but softens, grabbing a chair from the nearby desk and placing it across from him.

"Who was that," she questions softly. "He even shook Gregory up," not that she cared about him.

"Negan," he admitted and looked over at her. "You haven't been around long enough to catch one of their supply trades and definitely not long enough to see a deal being negotiated. I didn't want you to see him," he paused. "I mean, I didn't want _him_ to see _you_."

"I'm a big girl, Paul," his eyes snap to her at the sound of his own name. "I'm not afraid of the boogeyman anymore."

"He's not just the boogeyman, he's the devil."

Csilla snorted. "I think that's a bit dramatic."

Paul sighed, slouched back in the chair like he had been working all day when, in reality, he had been talking about trying to scout again with Gregory all morning. She wasn't good at consoling people, so she just sat there awkwardly, and he had to know by now to not try and pry that out of her.

It never worked.

"Why did you tell me I shouldn't have come down," he perked up a little, looking at her from behind the edge of his beanie. "You've never said that before when we talked to other groups, what's so wrong with them? I mean, yeah they were scary, but at least they seem somewhat civilized."

"I just don't need them getting any ideas," there was an unusual bite in his voice. "He took Amber during the first shortage, when we were first getting things together here but she escaped and. . .we don't know what happened to her. But I'm sure she's dead because she escaped, you can't just do that with Negan. . .he's got good hounds."

He really knew how to make a girl antsy.

Csilla wrung her wrist in a tight circle, looking back out the window and watching the first few droplets of rain hit the window.

 _Great, just fucking perfect,_ more _rain._ That's what they needed.

Normally, she would love these days, before the dead roamed that is, but now she despises it. Because it reminds her that once, she had felt more things than annoyance and hunger. She had never felt dirt beneath her nails before, pangs of hunger or wondered if she would get attacked or die that day. She had been so privileged, it disgusted her now thinking about how she had always had pretty dresses and perfect curls while now, she was lucky if she got to wash her hair that week or not.

So much had changed so fast.

"I want to go out with you on your run," she finally admitted.

"Csilla --"

"No," she snapped. "I don't care how mad Gregory gets," she tightened her fist. "I'm tired of sitting in here," she looked to him. "Please."

She'd get what she wanted, always did with him for some insane reason. She wasn't the first he had rescued, he said, but he treated her differently than the others and she liked that; she'd always liked having someone treat her like this, like she was special when she really wasn't.

He sighed. "Okay, okay," he smiled softly at her. "I'll sneak you out," he winked.

Csilla chuckled and reached out, grabbed his hand and let it rest lazily in hers. "How long do these things usually last?"

Jesus hummed, leaning back in his chair. "It varies, one time they were in there for a whole five minutes. I've been going in lately but. . .Gregory didn't want me in there. Told me that I needed to wait with you."

**Bad feelings.**

"What do you think they could be talking about," she didn't mean to whisper, but she did.

Paul shook his head. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't think I want to know."

Csilla ran a hand through her hair. "That's not exactly what I wanted to hear," she grumbled. "But I know its all you got."

"Smart cookie."

"Shut up."

"Csilla."

She looked up to Gregory, who was standing in the doorway and looking mighty pale. . .and angry. . .sad? "Yes," she questioned and stood, letting go of the hand so warm in hers. "Is. . .Is everything okay, Gregory?"

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, something biting, something like a child would, but he shut his mouth, shut his eyes, breathed slowly out of his nose and then reopened those eyes. Trying to be calm in a tense situation, it didn't seem to fit him how it usually did.

"I. . .I need you," desperation, a new one. "Would you please come with me, dear?"

She hated that pet name, but she nodded anyway, tried not to look back at Paul because Gregory would just get more upset when it was all over and she didn't need that to fuel the fire.

She filed behind Gregory like her mother would -- though, her mother would have led the charge -- with a bit of a defiant glint in her eye and a raised chin. She didn't look at any of the men in the lobby, and thankfully they didn't make noises like she had thought they would, but she could still feel eyes clinging to places they shouldn't and it pissed her off.

Not like she could, or _would_ , say anything.

She stopped basically one step into the room, chills erupting over her skin as she watched Negan's back; she heard the door click shut behind her and almost cried when she didn't see Gregory in the room with her. Her fists clenched at her sides, a shaky breath coming through her nose while Negan browsed the tall bookshelves, barbed wire resting on his shoulder.

"Always appreciated this place," he started, reaching out and plucking a book from the shelf. "Gregory wanted to preserve something special to him," Negan looked back at her, smiled. "Just like you."

"Why am I in here," fuck, her voice trembled.

He chuckled softly. "Are you scared," he cocked his head, walking over to one of the lounge chairs.

Csilla watched him fall down into it, hesitated before she followed behind him. "Who wouldn't be," she tried to even out her voice as she sank into her own seat. "I've heard what you can do."

"I'm just a man with a little ambition in his eye," he tapped the baseball bat against the toe of his boot. "You have nothing to be scared of, I may be many things, but I do have rules and I don't hurt women or children. That's a cowards game."

"And yet you don't seem to mind intimidating them," her eyes stayed locked on the bat bouncing in front of her. "Keeping her out and not leaning against your chair. . .I know what that's about."

He chuckled and jerked the bat backwards, catching it with a gloved hand and cradling it lovingly. "Her name is Lucille," he smirked at Csilla. "You and her are going to get very well acquainted, she will be protectin' you a lot after all."

"Excuse me," slipped out, _you dumb bitch, how could you let that slip out?_

But he didn't seem put off, upset in the slightest, he smiled at her, showing teeth. "I came here for a new group of boys, but looks like I got all you can spare," Csilla jerked her head back when he swung Lucille forward, the head of the bat close to her face. "But you. . .you'll do, a pretty young thing like yourself. Gregory already made the deal, we're not taking anything this month thanks to your pretty face."

"No," she whispered.

" 'fraid so," he pushed himself to his feet. "Don't worry, you'll be all set with food, running water, protection. Hell, you'll be safer than you would ever be in this shit hole. So pack your shit, sweetheart, you're comin home with me."


	2. Chapter 2

She's never had such an intense car ride.

She sits in the back of an old truck, a blonde chain smoking against the tailgate across from her, arm propped up on her leg. She cradles the cigarette between her fingers and blows smoke into her hair, strands getting wrapped around her nose and she has to close an eye but she doesn't stop smoking even for a second.

Csilla keeps her hands folded between her thighs, knees pulled up to her chest and her own hair tied back away from her face. . .because Negan did it.

" _No room up front, darlin_ ," his fingers were surprisingly gentle as he raked her hair back into a tight little bun. " _Don't need your hair getting all knotted up, wanna give my own hands that pleasure later tonight_ ," he winked and her cheeks flushed on their own accord. " _Jus' kiddin, you just look better this way_."

She looked better that way? Didn't he already call her pretty? Nothing new, never meant anything special to her because she got called pretty on the average and none had yet to get into her pants.

That streak was most likely to be quashed.

By force.

" _Sit here, stay quiet, don't open the door. If anyone else does - shoot em_."

He leaves her with a gun, which is surprising, almost as surprising as his instructions before he left. He locks her up in a room she guesses is his. . .theirs. . .because there are men's clothes in the closet and an old thing of cologne on the nightstand, bottle of scotch beside that.

Csilla presses the tip of her finger against the top of the silver lid, rocks the bottle back and forth before she picks it up and starts to unscrew the cap.

She actually wonders where the man belonging to the scent is, why he just up and left her the moment he brings her inside. He didn't say he was leaving this. . .compound, and it's pouring rain outside so she has no doubt he's around here somewhere, but her mind wanders when she's nervous and she tries to latch onto things that keep her distracted.

She shouldn't, but she thinks about the blonde in the back of the truck, the one that was smoking and staring at her the entire ride through the night, the one they dropped - nearly kicked, literally - off at the old relay station. Her eyes had been so intense, so cynical, so critical, so full of disdain. . .Csilla had been surrounded by women like that her entire life but none had made her squirm quite so. Older women, middle aged, sprouting crows feet and stretch marks, squishy arms and droopy asses, all jealous of a girl that didn't even know their names.

Csilla inhaled the musk stuck inside the bottle, clinging in that shallow puddle at the very bottom, and closed her eyes for a moment. It gave her chills, made her. . .tremble.

Men shouldn't be allowed to carry that smell on them.

She screwed the bottle shut and set it back down on the table, wrung her hands out on her skirt. She could hear men stomping around out there, laughing and carrying on, the scent of nicotine coming up from beneath the door. What was it about the apocalypse that made people want to smoke? Csilla grabbed the pillow case from one of the pillows and stuffed it under the door, locked it and she didn't care if it was loudly. She sat down on the end of the bed and tucked her hands between her thighs again, listening to the laughter, thought of Jesus.

" _I'll see you in a month_ ," he promised, seemed so sure about it.

" _If I'm alive_."

She was scared, so fucking scared, because these men were terrifying and this man - Negan - was terrifying.

" _He sold me, Paul, he fucking sold me!_ "

And Gregory had wept, like he was losing a child, but the only thing he said was, in a whispered hush, _he takes all my stuff._

Fucking narcissistic piece of shit!

Csilla jumped when she heard a loud slam somewhere down the hallway, jumped to her feet when she heard the woman scream and the man laugh. Her heart was hammering in her chest, she stepped around the corner of the bed so she wasn't next, though there had yet to be a threat directed towards her.

"Fucking stop!"

"Get the fu-sh-ck off me ma'," came the slurred response and Csilla could hear the mans jaw crack. "Ya mother-fucka!"

She heard boots slapping up and down the hallway, screams from men and women; _stop! You dumb fuck. Let him go! Let her go! Get off me!_

And then there silence, a quick lapse in it to be exact, like someone just flicked the switch and the lights went out. She didn't hear the squeak of boots, slurred speech, women yapping, men snarling, she heard utter silence. It was so quiet, that ringing began in her ear, the one everyone knows but most forget, the silence that rivals what human spout to be silence all the time.

Csilla cocks her head and continues to stare at the door, palms sweaty as she held her hands together.

And then a crack.

She doesn't know what it is, but its a crack, followed by one more, then a crunch, a wet squish, another crack - or was that just another crunch? They sound. . .pretty much the same. She hears a garbled noise - a wet moan, or a plead for mercy she thinks, and then there's silence again, but only relative. She hears people now, shuffling by, one snicker and a snide dumb fuck should have listened.

The door handle rattles violently and Csilla jumps, hurrying to the door and grabbing the knob before she thinks better of it. She stops though, fingers on the lock, and she licks he lips.

"Wh-Who is it?"

"Lucy, I'm hoo _ooome_ ," he sings, chuckles at his clever one liner.

Csilla swallows thickly and unlocks the door, opening it and stepping to the side. Her eyes widen on the floor, a drop of blood growing from where it hits and her head snaps up, catches the gore hanging from steel teeth. He whistles as he walks, swaggering into the bathroom off to the side and she hears the water run when she doesn't see it.

She looks into the hallway before slamming the door shut, afraid of the strange faces outside. She locks the door again out of her own comfort and wipes her hands against her thighs, sits on the edge of the bed again.

He killed a man in the hallway.

Right there, almost against the door, and he seems so happy about it.

"Sorry about that," she looks up slowly when he speaks, watches his back as he stands in front of where a mirror would have gone in the bathroom; there's only a stark outline now. "Some of the newer men apparently don't understand my low tolerance for domestic violence."

"It seems a weird standard to uphold," she looks down at her lap, not having meant to say that aloud.

"And why would you believe that," she felt the bed dip across from her back. "Would you prefer I knock the fuck out of you so long as you're alive? Let the men rape you? Because they want to, they'd fucking love to - but I don't let that stupid shit fly around here."

"I just. . ." She twisted the hem of her skirt between her fingers. "Is that what you're gonna do to me," he hummed in a questioning way. "Are you going to. . .is that why you brought me here? I can't fight, I don't even know how to use that gun you left. . ."

"You have a pretty face," he grunted as he pushed himself up from the edge of the bed. "And no, I'm not gonna rape you, girl, I just told you I don't put up with that shit, not even from myself."

At least he wasn't one of those, laying down firm rules that applied to all but himself.

"But, pretty soon," she looked up when he stepped in front of her, stepping so close she had to lean back. "I'll have you begging for me to fuck you," he grinned menacingly, leaning down and placing his hands on either side of her, pressing her into the bed. "We can start now. . .or you can play hard to get."

She knew it.

" _Please_ ," she begged and that seemed to excite him a little. "I-I wouldn't -"

"Just how old are you girl," he murmured, pushing back the hair from her face.

"S-Seventeen, pl -"

"Not usually my type," he stood straight suddenly and Csilla released a shaky breath. "But I can make it work," he stared at her for a long moment. "Come on, sit up now, don't sit there and fucking stare at me all crooked like that."

"Can you blame me," she sputtered and shook her head. "I-I didn't _want_ to come with you! I wanted to stay there with Paul and even -"

" _Paul?_ "

She closed her lips up tight, fists clenched, trembling. Negan looked back over his shoulder at her, face leveled and. . .threatening. He wouldn't let her clam up, he would get that out of her, because she was stupid and said his name and -

"J-Jesus," she murmured. "He. . .He's called Jesus a lot. . ."

"Ah," there was a smile. "The peacemaker, good kid," he paused and pointed at her, brow furrowed and lips lightly pursed. "He the one you had a crush on?"

"I don't. . .no, no," she lied.

He didn't believe her, not one bit. "What do ya see in a spindly prick like that," no animosity, not visually anyway. "He good in the sack or somethin?"

Her cheeks flared again and she tightened her knees; he noticed. "I never slept with him," she snapped, but her throat was rough.

He arched an eyebrow, hands on his hips. "You a carpet muncher," she shook her head fiercely. "Ah. . .ah, I see - you're a _fuckin_ virgin."

Her heart leapt into her throat, instinct making her legs curl up. A slow smirk curled the edges of Negan's lips and Csilla bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Most hit her chin, which seemed to catch his attention and his eyes softened up a little. He turned around completely, sitting beside her on the bed while she tried to wiggle away from him; he grabbed her arm when she tried to do so, pulling her against his side.

He grabbed her chin between the fingers of his free hand, jerking her head towards him. His eyes flickered around her face, thumb wiping at the blood on her chin.

"You're really scared of me, aren't you," he murmured; she could swear he was leaning closer.

Csilla hesitated, nodded softly; she went a little limp. "I-I'm fucking _terrified_ ," her lower lip trembled and she closed her eyes; her hands were shaking in her lap.

All he did was hum, low in his throat and she knew he was moving closer thanks to the shift in the bed.

But she jumped when his lips touched hers, even though she knew it was coming, and her muscles seized in trying to pull her back. She didn't want him touching her, let alone kissing her; so gentle, not pushy. How a first kiss should be, with the wrong man though, not the one she wanted.

She squeaks in her throat when he pushed her back against the pillows. "St- _Stop_ ," she whimpered, pushing a hand weakly against his chest. "Negan please!"

"Mmm, like you don't want it," he murmured against her nose. "Wonder how easy it is to make you squirm," his hand released her arm, running down past her wrist, her hip. "I bet you're so fucking easy, feel fucking fantastic. . ."

Her hips jumped when he pressed the heel of his hand into the apex of her thighs, breath ceasing when he hit her clit. She tightened a hand against his leather jacket, the other in the sheets, her stomach clenching so tight it hurt.

"Please," she whispered, eyes shut tight.

He chuckled, applying a tad bit more pressure before he let her go. Csilla released her breath and blinked softly, gazing up at him because he was still so damn close to her face.

"Told ya kid," he murmured, eyes running down her face. "Not gonna rape ya."

"Y-You touched me against my will!"

"Ya didn't fight very hard," he arched an eyebrow. "But I told ya. . .I'll have you begging in no time."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes its been awhile but I promise I have good excuses. I'm finishing Meow's final chapter now, for those that follow it btw. I didn't mean to leave any of you hanging for so long.

She hadn't shared a bed since she was eight, and then it was her brother in her bed. When he was sweet, when he at least acted like he cared about her - Hell, even her mother had been a. . . _mother_.

The last time she had slept with her brother - her twin in almost every way until their twelfth birthday - was a memorable night because their dad had come home from the hospital. It had been two years since he had been home thanks to a faulty heart and worse doctors. She remembered being happy, remembered promising to be a big girl for her father and would sleep in her own bed to show him everyone would be strong while he went through the last few hurdles to full recovery.

And then she saw him, crumpled and weak, hair suddenly so grey, not at all like it had been months ago; it was usually thick, black. And those circles beneath his eyes, dark and whites bloodshot - he was a shell of her father.

So she'd had the start of a nightmare, climbed into her brothers bed and -

Her eyes snapped open when she felt the brush against her thigh, crossed them tightly at the feeling.

He chuckled behind her and Csilla squeezed her eyes shut tightly, fingers tightening around the corner of her pillow. The room floated with the scent of cigar smoke, something that was coming from his lips and it made her nose burn. It had a sweet tint to it which made it only slightly bearable; how would he react if she said anything about it? Would he freak out? Hit her? What would he do? She didn't know what to expect from him and that was so scary.

"C'mon sweetheart," he chuckled softly behind his words. "Loosen up, I ain't gonna hurt ya."

"I don't believe you," she murmured, eyes flickering in the darkness. "I was sold to you. . .I did _not_ come willingly."

She heard him loudly exhale between his lips. "Come now, doesn't mean ya can't be a little. . .loose?"

Csilla squeezed her eyes shut tight as he laughed loudly, surely waking someone up and for some reason that made her stomach clench. She didn't want anyone (even the people that already knew) that she was in here, that she was the source of that laugh; why, she didn't know. Some irrational thought, she supposed, because its not like anyone else here could possibly care.

Her breathing hitched in her throat when his hand traced up and down the side of her thigh, completely at ease while she felt like she would choke on nothing. She detached a hand from her pillow, grasping his hand firmly and trying to push it away, which she managed to do, but with a great deal of effort because he was toying with her. She did have some rage at the fact, but what could she do? Nothing, she was his, she should just give in - then again, she was never one to really give up.

"D- _Don't_ ," fuck why did her voice have to tremble?

"Mmm," he swatted her hand away gently, but she reacted as though she had been burned. "And why should I do that?"

"Because I don't want you to," she tried. "Please, please I just. . ."

"Wanna go home," he spoke in a questioning tone. "Yeah honey, and people in Hell want slurpies, it ain't happening any time soon."

She whimpered loudly and he ignored that, continuing to squeeze her thigh without purpose it seemed, just a menial task keeping his hand busy.

Csilla shook her head and twisted her head into the pillow, rather inhale the stale fabric than acknowledge that. . .that tightness and heat building deep in her belly. No, no this could not possibly be turning her on at all; she refused to accept that even though her body was definitely letting her know what it thought she should do. There was no chance she was going to willingly fuck that man, he would have to take it and even then - she would fight. Tooth and fucking nail, she had to, she couldn't accept this.

She wouldn't.

"Sweetheart," she tensed. "I can smell the smoke from over here, stop thinkin' so hard."

* * *

"Rise 'n shine princess," and cue the hard smack to her ass.

Csilla yelped and jumped, whirling over onto the back with hair caught in her teeth and feet tangled in the sheets. Negan just lit his cigar, giving her a casually bored look like he didn't see anything wrong with what he had just done. Csilla could still feel the sharp sting in her ass, almost feel the exact print of his hand - she trembled.

"That hurt!" She snapped, though her eyes said fear.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye and exhaled a thick puff of smoke from his nose. "Do I really look like I care," he leaned forward a little, making a circle around his face. "No, I don't, so, up an at em little girl, we got some work to do."

"Wh-What?"

"Yeah, I know you're used ta sittin on your ass all day and I don't mind that really cus it _is_ a pretty nice ass, but that don't fly around here," he reached for the foot of the bed, tossing her a flannel shirt and a pair of ragged jeans. "Boots on the floor, socks inside - you're goin to see something with us today."

She sputtered, not allowed the chance to say anything because he was already walking towards the door. She kicked the sheets from her feet, jumping from the bed the moment the door clicked shut. She stared at it in bewilderment, fingers clenched at her sides; _well what the fuck was she going to do now?_

Csilla looked at the clothes, sighing softly as she grabbed them to change. She rubbed sleep from the corners of her eyes and yawned, holding the clothes tight in her arms. What the Hell could he want her to see? Maybe they would be beating that asshole to death for selling her off to this man.

Well, he wouldn't see it as that. But she certainly did.

Always would.

As she laced her boots up, she was actually impressed; the right size, perfectly tight around her ankle. A lot better than the tennis shoes she had been wearing around; well, she had been wearing them around the house, not out hunting or anything like the others.

Oh God, were they going hunting?

"Please no," she murmured, peeking out of the door, looking left and right. "Please no hunting. . ."

"Please no what?"

Csilla jumped almost ten feet in the air, having to refrain from glaring at the black haired girl giving her a crooked look. She had a heavy looking gun in her hand, big with an equally intimidating scope on the barrel. Csilla jumped again when fingers snapped in front of her face, definitely not the woman because she was scuttling away like she had just been scolded; Csilla looked up at Negan with a dazed look on her face.

"Close those lips baby doll," he flicked her jaw up with the tips of his fingers, eyes hooded. "Something could slip right on by," he winked.

Her teeth clicked together and she narrowed her eyes at him, fingers flexing at her sides. "What're we doing," she demanded.

He arched an eyebrow and Csilla felt herself regretting being so demanding. He's a man, he was bigger than her, stronger, he could easily back hand her or decide she wasn't worth the trouble and toss her. She didn't want to die, she didn't want him to hurt her - but she still wanted to know what she was getting into before she followed him.

If he would tell her.

"Don't worry about it sweetheart," he pet her on the head in a patronizing manner. "You'll see, now come on the others are ready."

Could she stomp her foot and demand to stay home?

 _EW, home_ , she actually called this place home.

"How many other people," she mumbled as she hung her head and followed him.

"Is the apocalypse haven for the introverted?"

"Sort of," Csilla murmured. "How many others?"

"Hopin to get some more alone time with me sweetheart," he winked as he held the door open for Csilla while she rubbed her arms at a sudden chill.

Outside, the sun was eclipsed yet again by the storm clouds overhead and there was a nip in the air, unusual for the time of year. But she supposed, so close to Fall, it really was the time for the weather to be shifting. She wrapped her arms tight around herself, her muscles tensing as Negan draped an arm over her shoulders; that bat bounced on the other.

There were two other people in the truck, a grizzly of a man sitting in the back and a woman in the drivers seat; she was tapping a tune on the steering wheel. She looked over as Negan opened the door, her teeth coming down on the bubble she was blowing between her lips.

"Why we bringing her," the woman griped and Negan shoved Csilla into her side.

"Because I said so," he narrowed his eyes while his lips held a soft smile. "Or is that a problem?"

The woman sighed. "Nope, it sure isn't," she held a hand to Csilla. "Names Becky, what about you?"

"C-Csilla," she stuttered, taking her hand for one firm shake.

Becky scoffed and started the truck, eyes forward and ignoring Csilla who would have rathered shrink into her side than have Negan so close to her yet again. Being in the bed was enough, at least then there was some space. In the tight cab, rambling along, there was no escaping from him being against her. She was waiting for that hand to come down, waiting for him to be inappropriate, but he kept his eyes forward and his jaw ticked rhythmically but otherwise he was completely at ease.

Even if he was playing with the window.

Csilla jumped when Becky slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "Sir, will you please stop that annoying shit," she snapped, fingers flexing around the leather.

Negan chuckled and hit the button, rolling it all the way down and sending a chill through the cab. "Only because ya asked so nicely," so cheeky for a murderer. "Cold, baby girl," he questioned Csilla, weird concern on his face; it was really. "Could always cuddle up to me, been told I'm quite cuddly."

"Quite an ass," Becky murmured.

Csilla trembled once but stared forward, intent on ignoring the both of them. Becky seemed okay, even if she was a bit of a bitch and seemed worse off than most of the assholes she had met in the apocalypse, but she was a lot more preferred than the man sitting beside her.

At least Becky wouldn't try to finger fuck her.

Or maybe she would, how could Csilla know?

When she sneezed, softly, barely noticeably, he forced her into his side. Csilla tensed up, eyes popping as her entire body went ridged, shoulders hiked up to her ears; he didn't notice, or didn't care. Csilla could feel Becky look over at them, saw her eyes in the rearview mirror when she looked up. There was a wee bit of concern, but she obviously didn't plan on doing anything, like she probably could in the first place.

No one could do a damn thing.

"Don't be so frigid, sweetheart, we talked about this," he murmured into her ear. "Lucky I have some self control."

Csilla trembled again.

And Negan chuckled, straightened himself but wrapping her so hard against his side. And that's how it went for possibly an hour, her against his side and most definitely not okay, not comfortable in the slightest.

Until she grew tired.

Her eyes were drooping and she wasn't as rigid by him; he was. . .really warm. And she had hardly slept a wink the night before, too afraid of what he was going to do to her if she did sleep peacefully. Would he touch her? Would he hurt her? She didn't have a clue and the thoughts kept her up until she couldn't anymore and she was pretty sure then she only got two, three hours of sleep tops.

And she was falling asleep on him now.

"Not too bad," he murmured, looking down at her as she dozed off, head limp against his shoulder. "I don't think she'll be too hard."

"Camp full of pansies," Becky leaned back in her seat. "She's just a pretty little flower."

"Maybe so," he stroked back the hair from her collar and watched her shock into half-awareness. "Kinda jumpy."

"Well I'm sure you or some of the boys will scare that out of her," Becky sighed.

"Oh they won't be touching this one," he squeezed his hand so tight against his thigh that his knuckles crackled. "I will be sure to wipe out the entire camp if I have to."

Becky hesitated to look from the gravel road they had turned onto, seeing Negan staring down at Csilla with a placid expression. "I. . .You really want this one don't you?"

He hummed softly. "Suppose so, or else I woulda let her go to one of the boys by now. Nah, she's gonna stay around for awhile. See how she does tonight and we decide later. . ." He chuckled. "I mean I decide."

Becky snorted. "Right, right."

* * *

She's never seen a more _pathetic_ group of people.

She shouldn't be one to judge because she wasn't exactly the brave type as of late but these people cower and she's pretty sure its not just because of Negan.

Though, he does cut an intimidating figure pacing back and forth in front of three people that make themselves known as the 'leaders'. Swinging Lucille, chanting in a jovial manner, pointing that wrap of barbed wire at one young mans face while he trembles against the ground. Lucille was terrifying on her own, bloodstained and that barbed wire somehow untainted by the messes it had probably since the beginning.

"Now, I said if we didn't get the cut this month, there would be consequences," he shook his head. "I believe I made that _so very_ clear, over and over again - and I wouldn't make such a big deal but since we saved you people you have royally sucked at paying your debt."

"W-We told you its hard with such a small group to meet the demands of yours," one of the older men sobbed at Negan's feet, eyes brimming with fearful tears. "We simply cannot -"

"Now I don' wanna hear it," Negan put on the stern-parent face, hand on his hip, Lucille's nose hitting the ground.

"You don't have to watch this shit you know."

Csilla looked over at Becky, watching her flick a small wad of gum off into the leaves. Becky had followed Csilla around the camp all night while Negan took inventory, gathered who spoke as leaders. And she couldn't say she was comfortable with the attention, but it was better than the looks these people were giving her.

Maybe a group of fifteen, twelve? Csilla hadn't bothered to count because they were all front and center, horror in their eyes as they waited for Negan to call the verdict. Csilla wanted to feel bad, she really did, but she couldn't when they claimed to be hungry themselves but appeared perfectly capable; at the moment.

Why she had to be here to see them, she didn't know, but Negan had told her to watch them and she was going to that she felt whether she liked it or not. He wanted her to see something, and she was barely awake, so she would go with it for now. He hadn't pulled too rash a move yet, and if so many people were terrified of just him and two others, she wanted to see what it was all about. Seemed to get everyone back at the Hilltop all nervous, rustled their jimmies, so she'd finally get to see this in person.

"He wants me to," Csilla rubbed at her eyes, trying to wake up. "And I wanna see why everyone's so. . .scared of him. He's just one man."

Becky shifted her weight nervously. "You just don't even know, girl."

Csilla looked over at her and then back to Negan when Becky's expression didn't change from neutral. He was saying something, too low for her to hear, Lucille dragging the ground in front of him. His hips swayed slightly, toes rocking up above his heels as he bent down to whisper into the mans ear; there was a bit of horror on his face. He was the older man, crooked nose and snow white hair, looked like he was knocking on Heaven's door as they sat there.

Negan pushed up slowly, shoulders cocked back and firm, the mans eyes still wide up at him; Csilla barely noticed Negan's knuckles turning white.

"Pathetic old man," Negan murmured. "I hope your mistakes eat you alive. I won't let you die peacefully."

Csilla tensed, waiting for what Negan would do to the man but when he grunted, when he swung the bat up, he didn't hit the old man. He hit the younger one beside him, cracked his jaw clear open, sent blood flying into the air. He grunted and she could see his jaw split open as his head jerked to the side and up, eyes immediately closing. His head slammed into the ground and Negan backed up a step as screams filled the air, people grabbing onto each other.

Csilla stared.

Negan tsked and raised Lucille again, swung down onto the mans head again, causing a notable dent in his temple where blood oozed out.

Csilla lowered her arms from across her chest.

He arched the bat back again, looking over at the old man that was crying, head bowed. "Nuh uh," Negan raised his boot, tilting the old mans head up so he could watch. "You're gonna see what you did - watch every last bit of it."

Csilla clenched her fists, heart racing in her chest, felt like it had dropped to her toes.

Negan swung the bat down again with all of his might, even bending at the knees to do so. He snickered when the mans head bounced off of the ground from the impact, blood spattering the pine nettles around their feet. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then swung again, clearing right through to the ground; he grunted as he jerked Lucille from the dirt, the grey matter tinted red hanging off of her barbed wire.

Csilla stumbled back a step, into the warm grill of the truck, fingers digging into the metal. Negan raised Lucille for inspection, whistling softly as he did so, being so cavalier on purpose, to terrify - and it was working.

Negan let out a shrill whistle between his teeth and chuckled, nudging the squishy, dismembered head at his feet. "Man, that boy didn't have as hard a head as he let on," he kicked the body and it barely moved, but Csilla could see the fingers twitching. "Oh ho! Look at that, see the nerves dying? Man, that's some _freaky_ shit!"

Csilla bit her lip, shaking her head softly as Becky remained unfazed. She'd seen this shit regularly, right? Had to, Csilla almost wanted to ask but Negan was cackling at the dead body, the old man that looked completely destroyed. And why wouldn't he, Csilla didn't even know the boy and she wanted to scream.

Could have just been shock though, considering it wasn't everyday she watched someone beat another humans head in.

"Now," Negan started, flicking his bat heavily to dislodge the red stringy stuff on her. "I don' wanna have to do this shit again, real bad on my back," he dramatically rubbed the small of his back. "Just get me my supplies, and I won't have to kill another one of you dumb motherfuckers. Not like I haven't warned you - and this is the last. Or we just dispose of ya like a fucked up limb. Don't need you draggin down the rest of us. Understand," when the old man just whimpered, Negan jerked the tip of Lucille against his chin, forcing the man to look up at him. "I repeat - understand?"

The old man nodded fiercely, staggering back on his knees when Negan dropped Lucille and started walking back towards Csilla and Becky. He muttered something into the latters' ear and she nodded, grabbing the duffel bag from the ground and walking at a brisk pace towards the back of the camp.

He looked over at Csilla next, smirking when he saw her staring at the dead body the settlers were trying to gather through their silent hysterics. She couldn't look away, to be honest, not even from some morbid fascination like Jesus had sometimes, she just couldn't move. If she moved, she was afraid she would fall, or cry, or scream, or something.

When Negan grabbed her waist, she only inhaled sharply, still staring blankly at the backs of strangers. "You frozen, little bird," he murmured into her hair, holding her so close and gently like she were a willing lover.

Csilla blinked softly. "I wanna go home," she whispered, looking up at Negan. "I wanna go home _now_."

He arched an eyebrow, looking up when there was another one of those fucking whistles. Becky was striding towards them, sweaty and a bit rustled, the burly man lumbering behind her. Negan's jaw tightened and he let Csilla go, letting her stumble a little with the loss of his weight. Becky stumbled to, mostly because Negan roughly pushed past her through the people, right into a man who couldn't be any older than sixteen that was w blood on his arm. He saw Negan and his eyes widened, ready to run but Negan grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of sight; Csilla didn't want to know.

"C'mon," Becky muttered, pushing Csilla towards the passenger door. "He'll catch up."

"What is he doing," Csilla came to her senses, noticed her heart racing again.

Becky shook her head. "I said come on, he'll catch up."

Csilla looked down at Becky's hand when she went to grab her and swatted it away, leaving the woman with actual shock in her eyes. Csilla ran a hand through her hair and looked back after Negan, shaking her head as she followed him.

Bad idea, very bad idea, like one of the worst she has ever had in her life but for the love of it all she had to follow him. Could she stop him from doing what she thinks he's getting ready to do? Probably not, most likely it was a big fat no but she had to do something. She'd never seen such brutality, never actually watched someone die and she couldn't let him kill someone else.

Csilla pushed someone out of her way, was probably a woman judging by the hair but Jesus had long hair so -

She stumbled to a stop when she heard a strangled, muffled cry, biting her bottom lip hard enough to break a teensy bit of skin. She licked the evidence away and flexed her fingers at her sides, taking a hesitating step forward and peeking around the edge of the RV.

Negan had the boy pinned against the side, Lucille at his throat, barbed wire tugging on just the edge of his jaw. There was a big knife inches into the boys upper thigh, close to some sensitive equipment; Csilla felt that was the aim.

Negan had his lips near the boys ear, whispering something in a hurried manner and he gently twisted the knife, just enough to make the boys body jerk and his lips opened to scream - but he couldn't thanks to the hand over his mouth.

"We clear young man," Negan murmured, eyes hooded as he pulled back just enough to look into the boys eyes.

"I-I didn't -"

"Don't gimme that shit," Negan whined, driving his knife deeper into his thigh; this time, Csilla heard a cry. "Don't you ever think of touchin one of my people ever fucking again, or I cut your cock off and feed it to you."

"Y-Yes!"

"Yes _what?!_ "

"Yes sir! Yes sir!"

Negan jerked the knife out, backing up and letting the boy crumble to the ground, clutching for his leg and trying to cry silently; Csilla didn't blame him, Negan was still there.

"Sweetheart," Csilla looked over at Negan while he glared. "Get in the God damn truck."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is 1:43 a.m. where I am at the moment, but I couldn't wait until morning to post. So here is the latest update, and I promise they will be cranked our faster. I do have two accounts to keep up with, all of my PG-13 and below stuff is on FanFiction.net

Csilla didn't speak the entire ride back.

Negan resumed playing with the window, Becky grumbled softly to herself, but Csilla couldn't make out what she was bitching about exactly due to the rumble of the engine. When they had all climbed out of the cab, Negan was gentle with her, like she were a delicate thing; she couldn't really protest to that, but his treatment clashed with his displays and her head had yet to stop swimming since she met him.  
   
"How about you take her back to our room," Negan murmured to Becky, but he didn't stop staring down at Csilla. "Get her a shower."

She had to tear her gaze away from his face as Becky took a hold of her upper arm. It wasn't firm, not really, but there was no fighting her as she pulled Csilla along. Negan just watched them go, a thoughtful look on his face before he turned to the lanky man trying to get his attention. The doors clicked shut, darkening the hallway enough to make it ominous. The compound was busy today, with people moving in and out of rooms, moving furniture, the smell of cooking meats and vegetables coming from what had to be the kitchen at the very end of the hallway; it was oddly long.

Becky didn't release Csilla's arm until they were in Negan's room. She slammed the door behind her, leaving the dazed Csilla to stare at the end of the bed until she startled her by slamming to door yet again.

"What the actual. . ." Csilla shook her head. "Could you stop slamming the door?"

Becky narrowed her eyes even more at Csilla, who wanted to curl up and shrink away just so she didn't have to see that look. It was venomous and angry, but Csilla doubted Becky wanted to dish about her problems.

She probably wanted her gone so she didn't have to babysit Csilla right now.

"Here," Becky's soft tone betrayed the look on her face. "And I'm not mad, its just my face," she held out a towel and a rag -- yes, a tattered little thing -- to Csilla. "I have clothes for you to change into when you get out, they'll be on the bed."

Csilla nodded, clutching the towel tight to her chest, digging her nails into it. Becky turned around immediately, without saying anything more or giving Csilla the chance to say thank you; she sighed heavily and tugged out a cigarette from her pack before shutting the door, softly this time. Csilla released a relieved breath and lowered the towel, walking into the bathroom -- and making sure to lock the door behind her.

She didn't want a surprise from Negan, and she definitely wouldn't put it past him.

The water was cool, but warm enough to be tolerable. Csilla tipped her head back into the spray from the shower, holding onto the handicap bar to her right as she closed her eyes. She was so tired, she just wanted to sleep forever -- perhaps even through this nightmare. Or maybe it was just that, a nightmare, and she was dreaming. She would wake up, be home, go to her job, have a couple of drinks with her friends and then go right back to sleep.

Csilla sighed as she soaped up her hair, aching to smell a burst of false flower-scent but there was nothing. It was just suds in a bar, to get her clean and nothing more.

Csilla yelped and dropped the bar of soap when the door rattled loudly, suddenly smelling the strong taste of cigar smoke in the tiny bathroom. She snatched up the bar and set it in the dish, covering her breasts immediately and staring wildly out of the curtain. Locked, the door was still locked, but God he was so close while she was naked.

"Come on, baby girl, I'm back."

There was a bright chirp in his tone, which made Csilla absolutely sick. "I don't feel so good," she murmured, leaning against the slick wall.

"Want me to come help you out, sweetheart," Negan teased.

"N-No," she turned off the water, listening to him laugh at her. "Kill me now," she whispered softly.

She wrapped the towel around her middle, digging her toes into the nasty little carpet. Okay, she could do this, she could make it another night, she could totally do it. And the other nights? When he got tired of her? When he lost his temper, would he hurt her? Kill her? Toss her to his men? Her mind could come up with all of these horrible things that he could do, would do, but that didn't really mean anything would happen.

Csilla looked around, brow furrowing softly as she clenched her right hand into a fist, left holding up her towel. "Oh crackers," she muttered.

She forgot her clothes.

" _No_ ," she whimpered, shuffling in her spot.

Csilla stomped her foot and slowly unlocked the bathroom door, creaking it open into a crack. Negan was sitting on the bed, unlacing his boots as he whistled softly to himself. He wasn't intimidating, he wasn't intimidating. . .good lord, watch those back muscles roll. Csilla clenched the edge of the door and shook her head, wishing the door didn't have to creak like that when she opened it. But Negan didn't look up, he just set his boots to the side and stood walking over to the grimy little closet and proceeded to unbutton his shirt.

_What the actual Hell?_

Csilla swallowed and stepped out of the bathroom, eyeing the night shorts and the white tank top lying at the end of the bed. She shuffled towards the bed, stomach all tied in knots as she waited for a blow or him to make some kind of remark.

As soon as her fingers wrapped around the shorts, an arm wrapped around her waist. Csilla yelped and wiggled in his arms, trying to turn and push against him, get away, but he tightened his grip, leaving her little room to escape. He chuckled, free hand running up her arm to her jaw, tilting her head to the side as he started to trail his lips over her throat.

"I say you picked the perfect outfit to sleep in," he murmured, breathing heavily against the shell of her ear.

"Please," she shook her head, trying to ignore the tingles his lips sent through her nerves. " _Please_. . ."

"Mmm. . .begging," his fingers kneaded her hip, tongue brushing over her pulse point and making her jump. "That's right, babe, feels good does'n' it?"

Csilla trembled, legs trembling as she held the clothes tighter in her hands, almost like her life depended on it. And it almost did, the strain in her knuckles kept her from just collapsing from how good he felt.

Csilla's eyes snapped open and she thrashed against him, making him growl but she was already in the bathroom when he decided to reach out for her. She leaned back against the counter as he slammed a fist against the door, otherwise silent on the other side. Her heart thrummed like a humming birds wings in her chest, legs still a little weak. She waited a moment, not until her heart slowed down because now, that wasn't possible, before she started to dress. She continued glancing at the door as she did so, now sure he would try something but he didn't; still, she kept her guard up.

Csilla hopped onto the edge of the counter, swinging her legs back and forth as she chewed on her lip. She didn't even entertain the thought of staying in the bathroom all night because she was tired as fuck. She just needed a moment, to ground herself, to try and not. . .be so turned on.

"Hell," she shimmied down from the counter. "I'm going to Hell."

She opened the door stiffly, seeing he was in bed, reading something -- perhaps a journal? There was no titling, and was he. . .no, was he wearing glasses?

_What the Hell was going on here?_

Csilla shut the door behind her, swallowing her fear and raising her chin as she walked around the edge of the bed. She sat on the edge of the bed, hesitant to lay back but she had already walked in here, if she was gonna just sit here she could have just stayed in the bathroom. Csilla sighed softly, tucking her legs beneath the blanket and lying on her side, wrapping the blanket tight around her hips.

_"I can do this, I can just go the fuck to sleep and be done with it."_

Of course, no sooner had the thought finished did the lamp click off and she heard the clap of the book shutting, being tossed down onto the floor. For Csilla, the tension in the room was high as Negan got comfortable, shifting just enough for her to not be able to tell which direction he finally settled in.

She would have really loved for him to have settled with his back to her.

Csilla gasped when she felt his fingers brushing against the back of her thigh. She clamped her thighs together tightly, squeezing her eyes shut at the jolt that went through her. No, no you have so much more self control than this! He's a fucking nut case, for crying out loud!

Her teeth were almost chattering as he started that kneading shit again, working at a snails pace up and over her thigh. The muscles in her thighs trembled as she tightened her legs even more, crossing them at the ankles and refusing to part when though his fingertips were gently brushing from the cleft of her thigh and halfway down. Up and down the tight line her legs made in her efforts coaxing her with his breath on the back of her neck.

He didn't say anything, which was just as creepy as if he hadn't said anything at all.

His arm snaked under her and up, wrapping up half of her chest and then around her neck. She gasped again, arching back in shock, just knowing this was how it ended because she didn't give out like he wanted. Her thighs parted and stretched, ready to fight for air when he started choking her but --

"No _please!_ " She begged, spine rolling as his hand slipped into her shorts.

Negan chuckled breathily against her throat, turning his fist down to nibble on her throat, the back of her ear, his fingers working slowly still towards her slit. Which was, as embarrassing as it was, soaked with no room for her to deny it. He hummed as she shuddered against him, her eyes fluttering close when he applied that subtle pressure to the top of her slit. He found that precious little nub, moving in soft circles that made her hips arch into the touch despite her shame.

"St-St --" Csilla bit her lip when his fingers moved down, one swiftly sinking into her. " _Ah!_ "

He still didn't speak, growling softly in her ear when he slipped another finger into her. His arm tugged her more against his chest, exposing her throat to his hungry teeth. She felt him hard as a rock against her ass, but couldn't get away with his hand so elegant in her pants. The heel of his hand found a slightly awkward angle against her clit as he fingers moved in and out of her, body hitching each time they drove home. She panted and whimpered, skin dampening in the tangle of sheets. He nudged her leg up and over his, exposing her more to his assault, his hold on her tight and allowing for no other movement than into him.

  
"Ah! _Ah!_ " Her eyes were squeezed shut so tightly it ached, able to here the wet sounds between her thighs.  "F-Fuck. . ." She trembled.

"So fucking tight," she startled at his grunt. "Oh baby, you are so fucking tight, you know that?"

Her cheeks flushed so fast with heat, her pussy doing the same as his fingers began to scissor inside of her. Csilla gave a weak little cry, having to bite her lip so no one had the possibility to hear. No, no they couldn't know. They couldn't know she had let him do this to her, make her or body betray her.

But sweet Lord, it felt so fan-fucking-tastic.

It was absolutely delicious, not having felt something so good in who knows how long.

Even the lewd sounds, her short gasps and his meager grunts she had to search for -- they were so fantastic.

Her hips tried to buck against his hand to no avail, because he simply wasn't giving her the choice. He was going to finger fuck her how he wanted, all tied up in his arms and aching to actually call his name.

"How close baby girl," he nipped at her ear, his fingers moving fast now, in and out, almost chaffing had she not been so slick. "You're so wet, you have to be close, or are you one of the slow build types? I wonder what you taste like? Bet you taste as good as you sound."

Csilla inhaled sharply, trying to prevent the scream that wanted to rip from her throat. Had he not been holding her so firmly, she would be thrashing about, trying to reach that peek. And he was bringing her so close, fingers hammering in and out of her, his cock against her ass reminding her just what he had in store for her.

She was ready, to Hell with it all.

"N-Negan," she whimpered softly, twisting her face into her pillow to release as many whimpers and moans as she could.

He chuckled as her pussy tried to milk his fingers, mistaking them for a cock as she came. He rubbed his thumb against her sensitive clit and her hips jerked, a gasp loudly flying from her lips at the contact.

" _I_. . ." He kissed her shoulder. " _will_. . ." He planted a soft nip on her pulse and she arched back into him. " _conquer_. . ." He bit hard against her jaw, delighting in the sound of his name on her lips.  " _you_. . ."


	5. Chapter 5

She wakes up in a heavy sweat.

Her stomach is tight and her skin is heavy, blankets curled around her ankles and Negan's side of the bed is cold, probably has been for some time.

She wanted some windows, she wanted some sunlight, she wanted some fucking fresh air.

Csilla swallowed thickly, fingers bunching in the sheets as she sat up. The room was so stale, her skin too hot -- _it was too quiet in here_.

She kicked away the blankets completely, watching them slide to the floor as she strode quickly towards the door; her throat was tight, she couldn't breathe right. The hall wasn't empty when she flung the door open, almost the opposite as she had to push people out of her way. Negan was there in the background, watching her, not stopping her when she made a bee line for the exit. People were yelling, but no one was chasing her, and no one tried to stop her when she passed.

The great escape? No, because that was way too easy and she wasn't stupid but why wasn't he stopping her from getting to that door? Why wasn't he stopping a possible escape?

She actually gasped as she burst through the doors, stumbling against the concrete, kicking towards the grass. Fresh air and silence, it was so fucking quiet outside, and she fell into the grass with that. She closed her eyes and sealed her lips tight, curling in on herself a little and wrapping her arms around herself. There was still dew on the grass, the sun hardly through the trees, she knows what she would be doing back at Hilltop.

Coffee with Paul, maybe a walk, a shower to wake her up, something to eat perhaps? Then journaling, reading, taking everything for granted and then trying to keep Gregory from touching her without getting kicked out of the house.

She hated that man.

Csilla took a large breath, not even realizing she hadn't been breathing, and rolled onto her back, spreading her arms at her sides, staring up at the swirling blues and pale orange of the sky.

She flinched when she heard the doors squeak open, shuttering closed with age and heavy metal. Light boot steps were approaching her, on the concrete and then crunching against the grass. She closed her eyes to avoid his face, scrunching up her legs a little in embarrassment; she'd let him touch her, even whispered his name into the dark. She was ashamed of herself for what she let happen, what he did to her and how she reacted to it.

She fucking loved it.

"What do you think you're doin," he questioned, so close and so deep.

Her lips parted, but Csilla didn't speak right away, digging her fingers into the grass, the soft soil underneath. What could she possibly say to this man? She had already proved him right by letting him violate her -- was it really violating if she got off on it? She had nothing to say to him really, nothing that was important, nothing she hadn't already said a million fucking times. She wanted to go home, she wanted to see Paul, she wanted to have her clothes and her jewelry and her books and all that back.

Here she was now in dirty clothes and lying on the wet ground, having let a stranger touch her in a way he shouldn't be able to.

His steps inched closer, near her head, and Csilla's throat tightened. Eyes still closed, she perceived it as a threat, any minute his boot would come down on her face.

"Let me tell ya somethin," his jeans squeaked as he crouched beside her; his fingers pinched as he grabbed her chin hard, jerking her face towards his. " _Open your fucking eyes_ ," he growled, she didn't, and he shook her head until her body scrunched up, hands flailing and knees curling. " _Open your fucking eyes then!_ "

And she did, with tears on the brim and her fingers deep in the soil around them. There was a quiet fury in his eyes, something she didn't like, something she was utterly afraid of. His face was placid around those eyes, as though he weren't hovering above this frightened, kidnapped girl.

"You're gonna apologize first," he raised his chin a little. "And properly, none of that half-assed sniveling shit."

Csilla swallowed thickly. "I-I'm sorry. . ." He arched an eyebrow. " _Sir_."

And he smiled, big and genuine, menacingly. "Good girl," he pet back her hair with his free hand. "Now, you're gonna be punished for that shit back there. It don't fly, makin me look bad in front of my men. Like I just let my things run around, go wherever they like. You won't ever walk out those doors without me again, I can guarantee ya that."

Her chest was constricting, nerves screaming at the pinch and pull of his fingers against her skin. They were rough and calloused, no doubt from beating people to death with that awful bat. When he released her finally, he pushed her face away from him with the gesture, grabbing her upper arm in the same movement and hauling her to her feet. She looked up at him from beneath frazzled hair, stumbling alongside him as he pulled her around the edge of the building.

"Wh-Where are you taking me," she thought of struggling.

He didn't say anything, humming as he walked as though he hadn't a care in the world. Csilla looked up, brow furrowing softly as she stared at the three poles erected in a triangular formation. They were the width of power poles, but stripped and clean, shackles drilled into them midway.

"N- _No_ ," Csilla whimpered, finally pulling back and stumbling as her arm slipped until his hand caught her wrist; she pulled still. "Please, please don't do that! _Anything_ but that!"

"Want me to fuck you raw," he threatened low and close to her face, enough to catch a drop of spittle. "Because, girly, I can do that. Just rape ya like you thought I would. Huh, would you rather I do that? Bet that's what gets you off real good too."

"Negan please --"

" _No_ ," he growled and slammed her back against the post, smirking. "Its sir now, the more you resist, the less human you will be treated. Its sir, then master. . ." He chuckled as he easily lifted her hands above her head. "I think you're gonna be such a good girl, I can't wait to show you off to my friends."

The cold metal of the shackles rattled shut around her wrists and Csilla lost his support. Her feet clambered to keep herself up, almost having to stand on the tips of her toes to keep the metal from biting into her skin. Her muscles strained and ached immediately and she whined deep in her throat, twisting as he stepped back to admire his work.

"I'm good," he nodded. "Alright sweet cheeks," he leaned in and planted a sloppy kiss against her cheek, to which she jerked away from but he said nothing. "I'm gonna have someone come feed ya soon, can't have ya gettin all skinny and shit."

Csilla looked up from beneath her brow, terrified of the man strutting away from her. As though he weren't a monster, as though he wasn't leaving her gained up out here with the elements.

As though he hadn't just admitted he planned on taking her humanity.

* * *

 

She's been there for two hours when another woman comes by.

She's old and she's chubby and there's a perpetual cloud of smoke drifting around her when she undoes the shackles. Csilla immediately collapses at her feet, legs jello and boned aching, shoulders popping and she cries into the ground at the pain but also the relief; the woman only sighs in an annoyed manner.

"Get up," she snaps, but didn't bend down to jerk her up like Negan would.

"F-Fuck you -- _ah!_ " Csilla curls in on herself a little more, bowing her head against the ground.

"That's what you get for bein a bitch, now get up I ain't got all day."

"And I said fuck you," Csilla snapped through grit teeth. "I-I've been up there for what feels like ever! And everything burns and aches and is mostly numb! Go fuck yourself, I'm g-gonna sit right here!"

The woman growled but still didn't touch her like Csilla expected, but she didn't give a fuck, she was beginning to learn how to properly move all over again. There were aches in deep, sensitive places on her body, every movement either sent a dull ring or a sharp strike of pain through her body. The parts that were numb were fuzzy and beginning to wake up, but that came with more dull discomfort.

"If you wanna eat," the woman's voice was taught and even, as though she were restraining herself; Csilla wanted to rip her eyes out. "I suggest you get up."

"Or what," Csilla's voice was shaky as she braced a her hand on her knee, wobbling to her feet. "Gonna hit me? Tie me back up?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Thinkin' bout it."

Csilla stared at the woman for a long time, shaking her hands, moving her body, running diagnostics. The woman's filter was crushed between her teeth and the rage was palpable through her gaze alone.

"You can't touch me," was that glee in Csilla's voice?

"Not unless Negan tells me to," the woman tried to regain some of her composure but there was too much amusement in Csilla's eyes. "And he didn't say to use force, so no, I can't touch you."

At last, Csilla smirked, though her knees wobbled, buckled, and threatened to give way beneath her. There was a sense of pride returning to Csilla's chest, that she couldn't be touched right now, that these people seemed to actually listen whole heartedly to the mad man's reign.

She may have been just a toy to him, but she. . .she was his, and he wouldn't let anyone else play with her.

"Food," Csilla felt the tremor of command in her voice but didn't get too excited.

The woman growled but turned, leading the way as Csilla struggled to regain as much composure as possible before they made it around the side of the building. She didn't need to wobble in, no she wouldn't be able to take that humiliation, though it would be far less than being shackled to a post in the backyard. Like a mutt on a chain, thankfully no one had bothered to come towards the back or even peer in her direction when they came outside to smoke. But they knew she was there, they knew what Negan had done when he walked back in empty handed and no doubt skipping.

It was dead inside, the halls empty and the lingering scent of breakfast ebbing through the air. Csilla peered back over her shoulder before the doors clicked shut, seeing only one of ten vehicles parked outside.

"Where did they all go," she questioned.

"Scouting, hunting or scavenging," the woman grunted, opening the doors to a rather large room with cafeteria table but the lack luster of the actual thing. "Sit somewhere, Emily will bring ya food," she paused before she headed for the door. "An' don't do anything stupid."

Csilla glared as the doors shuttered closed, sitting at her preferred table and she tapped away at the surface, humming softly beneath her breath. She could almost smell every ounce of body odor that had come through perhaps not long ago and it made her stomach roll. That was the worst part of the apocalypse to her -- current situation and murder/zombies aside -- the insistent and never wavering odor that clung to everything. Death, musk, straight up B.O.

She jumped when a tray slammed down in front of her. She almost gave them a bewildered look but seeing the scrawny, trembling young man in front of her with an apron on made her furrow her brow. Csilla reached out for the tray, but he jumped this time, shuffling backwards away from her.

"Why are you so scared," Csilla shook her head, plucking up a fork.

The boy looked around, terrified still in an empty room. "Y-You're Negan's _wife_ ," he hissed, panic in his eyes.

Csilla stopped mid-bite, eyebrows raised as she slowly lowered her fork; the motion made him whimper. "Excuse me?"

"You're Negan's wife," he shook his head, plucking at his own nails. "I-I don't want you to hurt me. . .he'll let you hurt me."

"I am not his wife and I am not going to hurt you," she picked up her fork again and he shuffled back, making her sigh deeply. "Unless you keep doing that shit, I mean seriously all I did was pick up my fork," she proceeded to eat angrily.

The boys mouthed opened and closed, shaking like a leaf and he nodded fiercely, almost running back into the kitchen. Csilla slowed as he disappeared, annoyance running fresh in her mind now. Her wrists ached and her muscles still burned with every movement, and then a stranger so kindly informs her that she's Negan's wide? Great, just fucking great, as if she didn't have enough reservations with the whole situation.

"Ya done," the woman was back and crabby as ever, a fresh cigarette in her mouth.

Csilla glared and set down her fork, unable to finish; her stomach was rolling already. She didn't want to go back out there, she didn't want to be tied up, she shouldn't have been so stupid earlier and she could probably be doing something less humiliating.

"Get up already," the woman griped.

"I'll go as fucking fast as I want to," Csilla snapped,   pushing up from the table and wishing a silent farewell to the half finishes tray in front of her.

"Lucky I can't touch you," the woman snapped, glaring a hole in the side of Csilla's face.

"So lucky," a pause. "I'm changing," Csilla brushed past the woman, biting her lip as she tried to find her and Negan's room.

"He didn't say --"

"I don't care what he said," Csilla slammed the door behind her.

Her hands trembled as she took a few steps back from the door, staring at it for a long moment like she thought the woman was gonna bust through, or even Negan. She didn't need that, she really didn't want to piss him off, but she did want to sit there -- seeing as she didn't have a choice in being tied back up -- in her night clothes until Negan decided to let her down.

She changed into jean shorts and a plain green shirt, staring at her shoes for a long time before she tied her hair back up and then opened the bedroom door. The woman was there, still glaring, still probably wanting to knock the fuck out of Csilla, but there was that feeling of power again and Csilla almost smiled.

"I'm ready now."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter is for Girl_WithTheDirtyMind because she creeped some shit with me tonight lol
> 
> Twitter: @LikePicklez

She can hear the dead hiss and snarl on the other side of the compound, while she hangs, balancing on delicate little toes.

Her muscles burn and ache, having been strung back up so abruptly from letting her muscles relax. She shouldn't have gotten down, she should have stayed up, or she should have demanded she stay inside.

But then she would have to deal with. . . _him_.

He's whistling softly when she whimpers, her toes slipping and putting all of her weight onto her own wrists. She threw her head back and her shoes slipped against the wet grass, whimpers flying past her lips as she struggles to find solid ground.

"Well shit sweetie pie," he grabbed the chain and hauled her up a little, putting relief into her muscles. "Gosh, you got dolled up for me? Ya shouldn't have!"

She looked up beneath her bangs, looking into those deep brown eyes that were alight with mirth. It was nearly dark, the cool air beginning to nip at her exposed skin. He cocked his head to the side, so close she could feel his heat, was aching for it even.

"Oh _puddin_ ," he murmured, lids drooping slightly and shuttling even closer, knee cocking softly between her thighs; not quite touching that V in her thighs. "Ya shakin? Whatcha shakin for, baby? Shakin for me, shakin for what you want me to do to ya," he questioned softly, eyes flickering up to where her chains held her. "Gotta say, puddin, I like ya all strung up like this. _Mmff_ , just really tickles my pickle, if ya know what I mean."

Csilla jerked when he stomped his foot, his smirk draining all of the color from her face, she was sure of it. She could smell the leather of his jacket, his musk, the scent of exhaust from whatever truck he had run off in that day.

She turned her head away from Negan and he chuckled, letting her chain go and Csilla nearly screamed when her feet slipped against the grass again. Her shoulders felt perilously close to something painful, either dislocating or possibly worse with how hard she was jerking her body around. She tried to grab the chains and pull herself up a little but pain splintered down her back when she did so.

"P- _Please_ ," she whimpered. "Please unchain me! Please! _It hurts!_ "

He hummed, taking a step back and watching her struggle. "You learned your lesson, sweetheart," he cocked his head softly. "Cus if I let you down, and you haven't? This little get up here," he circled a finger around her in the air. "Ain't jack shit compared to what else I can do to you."

Csilla ground her teeth, pressing up on her toes, pain radiating through her in thick pulses, mainly down her back. There went her pride again, rearing it's ugly head and refusing to give in when her body and logic screamed to just give up, even for a moment.

And she did, her toes shaking to keep herself up as she bowed her head. "I've learned my lesson," she murmured.

He leaned forward, leather crackling as he did so and he cupped a hand over his ear. "I'm sorry, sweetie, what was that?"

She raised her chin a little, swallowing thickly as he smiled at her sideways; waiting. "I've learned my lesson. . ." He waited still. "Sir."

He immediately straightened himself. "Good girl, I knew you were a smart girl when I first saw ya. Lets get you out of these chains now, huh?"

He reached above her head with a key in hand and the restraints gave way, his arms catching her before she completely hit the ground. He swung her up into his arms and began to stroll leisurely back towards the compound.

"Definitely need ta eat more," he shook his head. "Don' get me wrong, I like how you're fit but this is a shame, you have so much you can fill out."

Csilla didn't say anything, remained limp in his arms as he rambled on. He didn't seem to mind, kicking open a door or two, carrying her through the halls. She peeked up as they passed, listening to the chatter, watching them hauling things like mattresses and plastic bins of canned food in all directions. There were bloody noses and knuckles that passed, stone faced men and women that just wanted to get to their rooms and get the day over with.

Negan sat her on the bed, pausing when she whimpered, curling in on herself a little; everything ached like it had before. He set the key down on the bedside table and walked around the bed, into the bathroom with the door clicking shut. She couldn't hear anything over the chatter outside her door, but Csilla was focused on not moving so she didn't ache anymore. How could she watch her tongue to not experience something worse than that again? She would have to watch her ass all the time, she didn't want to be punished again and that was apparently the weak stuff.

He wanted her to be a good girl and she didn't want to die; she doubted he would kill her anyway, just to torture her and use her some more.

Her eyes shuttered open as his arms scooped her up again, jostling her muscles and making her cry out, digging fingers into his shirt - where did his jacket go?

He set her on the edge of the counter, letting her lean into him as she trembled. She didn't fight when he unbuckled her shorts, tugging them down her legs that screamed in protest at the stretch. He dropped them to the floor and went for her underwear next, but she struggled then, kicking out weakly.

_No, no she didn't want that again!_

He sighed and pinned her legs between his own until she stopped struggling, ignoring her whimpers as he pulled her underwear away and tossed it to the side. He grabbed her shirt and pulled it over her head before he grabbed her up again and turned, lowering her once again - this time into a tub filled with water just a little more than warm. Her muscles sang at the relief, unknotting and a sigh ebbed from her lips as she sank against the edge of the tub.

He left the room without saying a word, leaving Csilla to stare at the shadows his form made through the crack of the door.

Should she have said thank you?

She hadn't. . .what the hell was wrong with this man? Was he off his rocker? Was he just toying with her? Why couldn't she wrap her head around him? She'd been surrounded by crooked fuckers her entire life, but this man. . .he eluded her.

"Bathe yourself, or I'll do it for ya sweet cheeks," the tone came out just short of a song and Csilla's cheeks heated.

And she bathed, slowly, enjoying the moment, willing her body to relax in the water. Negan bustles about his room, occasionally leaving with a soft click of the door only to bark at someone on the other side.

It sent a chill through her.

When she was done and the drain unplugged, water swirling down the hole, she stared for a long time. When she gripped the edge, the pressure made her feel like Jello inside and out, so she gave up with a huff. What else was there to do? Sit here and wait, she supposed, or she could summon her voice and call for him, make him pick her up again.

But she feared what could come next.

And yet, the tub was getting chilly and she wanted to sleep, and this would not be a very good place to catch some z's.

"N-Negan?" Her voice was small and echoed through the room; she was met with silence. "Negan? Are you. . .are you in there?"

This time, she heard soft shuffles of socks against concrete heading her way and felt like curling up where she sat. But she just looked up with big eyes to him, swallowing thickly as he stared at her in a blank state. His eyes flickered over her and he sighed, stepping forward and reaching down to pick her up from the rapidly cooling tub. She curled against him, trembling and still. . .scared. She still had those thoughts, that he was going to do something to her, she just didn't know what.

And didn't really wanna know.

He set her down on the edge of the bed, a tremble going through Csilla when the rotating fan washed over her. Negan noticed and walked over to it, clicking the fan off and then looking over his shoulder, fingertips still brushing over that button.

"Wh-What," Csilla questioned, knowing full well what was going on in his mind.

He didn't say anything, just cocked his head to the side and turned around to fully face her. Csilla didn't move, didn't try to, as he shuffled towards her at a casual pace, arms slightly swinging at his sides.

_"You're Negan's wife!"_

Her lips gently parted as he stopped in front of her, his eyes flickering up and down her as she did the same to him. Waiting. Patient. Hungry.

She trembled when he slowly sank to his knees, his eyes boring into hers with a subtle intensity. It was smoldering and wanting, asking, and Csilla gave no response because he wouldn't obey even if she did.

His hands gently rested on the sides of her thighs, sending chill bumps across her pale skin. Her eyes fluttered closed as his fingers dug into her, gently massaging her muscles, his breath on her knees. It felt heavenly against her abused muscles, and it had been so long since someone had pet on her in any sense. She had forgotten how good it felt to have someone else touch her, pet her; his breath on her knees was a constant reminder of what he wanted, but her knees shuttered around parting in relaxation.

He didn't speak, which Csilla waited for to be honest. She expected him to taunt her and tease, be a little more mischievous than he was being, but he was being. . .gentle.

A quick gasp shot from Csilla's lips when a quick, firm tongue struck out against her slit.

She didn't look down, couldn't because then she would really die; she just bunched her fingers into the sheets. He prodded her again, this time a little slower, earning a breath to puff from between Csilla's lips. His hands tugged her hips towards his mouth, soft little noises from him vibrating against her sensitive sex. Her nails scraped at the sheets, aching to reach down between her thighs and pet him, moan his name, but she couldn't.

Not again.

His tongue swirled around her clit and pulled a moan from her, hips twitching to buck up against his mouth. It felt incredible, something she hadn't had much of to begin with, but it has also been so damn long since anyone had done this. Her body stretched and curled against his mouth, her own releasing short keens and her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.

Csilla could already feel herself getting close, thigh muscles clenching and flexing, aching to just close shut around his head. His hair was soft against her thighs as she twisted, his jaw scraping against her so deliciously.

He wasted no time in drawing two fingers deep into her, curling them up, dangerously close to such a sensitive spot that had her muscles clenching around those two digits reflexively. She threw her head back and dug her fingers through his hair, earning a groan from Negan's lips and a more vicious and delightful tongue lashing from him. Her thighs trembled and drew up against the bed, heels digging into the mattress, his name so close to flying from her lips.

"Fuck," she whimpered and twisted her head as he pumped his fingers in and out of her. "F-Fuck!"

He still said nothing, which - as a side note - concerned her a little, but the quick blush of a shuttering orgasm wiped that away. Her breath came out in a shaky gasp, her walls clenching around his still pumping fingers, his writhing tongue. He coaxed out the best of her orgasm, his tongue lazy against her sensitive little clit, his fingers slow to leave. When she finally nudged his head from between her thighs, he sucked his fingers into his mouth, eyes on her face as she stared down at him through hooded eyes.

His fingers popped from his lips noisily, a small grumble coming from his lips as he pushed back up to his feet. Csilla jumped when he slapped her inner thigh as he passed, watching him grab Lucille from behind the door and then he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its been awhile, but I've been tied up with my fiancé and its been very busy on my end with getting my GED and working towards a job at our animal shelter and just. . .busy lol but this is for everyone that is still clinging with me and have been asking for an update and I know I said this before but the adds will be coming faster now that I have the inspiration back.
> 
> Twitter: @LikePicklez

The next few days are boring.

And tense.

Csilla picks up a habit in those days, trickling out around ten, when the base is almost empty, and she goes to the kitchen. She sits at a lone table in the corner of the room, keeps her chin up as she watches the servers bring out her food, everything she requested too, and set it in front of her.

She wants to ask for help.

She wants to say _let's make a plan, lets get out of here, he has more slaves than men lets do this!_

But every time, she just starts eating, even snaps when they bring her Sprite and not Cola like she asks. She doesn't understand where her attitude with these people is coming from, but she has been mean. Not overly so, nothing physical, just her snark and annoyance has escalated being trapped here.

And the help. . . _they should know better._

She retires to the small library they have in the back, always feeling eyes on her but never seeing anyone; either they were good at hiding, or there were cameras, she wouldn't doubt either.

She's here every day around four, waiting for the clock to hit five so she can hide in the room and wait for Negan. One day she had grown ball-sy and waited in the seat until they had all filed in before heading to her room, thinking she was above them, and a man and even a woman had cornered her in one of the hallways while people passed; the man had gotten his hands up her tank top, ghosted over her ribs, before he had his head thoroughly bashed in.

She had sworn then to keep the schedule as tight as they did.

"Ma'am, they have arrived early," a soft voice comes from Csilla's right.

Her brow furrows before she looks up from the book in her hand, glancing up slowly at the woman in a disgusting jumper that was shuffling awkwardly there; like she wanted to say something, but was afraid.

"Thank you," Csilla spoke in a monotone way, closing the book and rising from her chair.

She watched the servant scuttle backwards and then they basically ran from the room. Csilla rolled her eyes at the stupidity; she hadn't done anything to them yet, hadn't struck them, hadn't said anything truly venomous, she had been as quiet and solemn as they were. She didn't care about the servants, they weren't a threat to her, they just did so much stupid stuff and basically just _annoyed_ her.

The hallways were empty still, which made it a little easier to breathe, but she could hear the heavy front doors creaking open and picked up the pace; her lungs tightened, stomach twisting.

The first Savior peeked around the corner as she opened her door.

A woman, a gruff woman with dark hair and a mean look on her face. She always seemed pissy, oddly sticking out amongst the women that ran with Negan. They were just as scary as the men, maybe more so because Csilla could have sworn they were women and should feel some sort of kinship, maybe even a little sorry for her.

But they treated her the same as the men.

Its like they were all connected, all the same. All mean and spiteful and to anyone but themselves, even if they got mad someone had gotten killed from their own teams, they just moved on. She would swear Negan was the brain keeping them all connected, but he always seemed to have his own agenda while his worker bees had a collective objective all their own.

Weirdest shit Csilla has ever seen.

Csilla sighs and sets her meager belongs - reading glasses, a handful of hair ties and a small comb - on the nightstand, raking her nails back through her hair as she walked towards the bathroom.

_"Be clean, be presentable, don't want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours."_

He hadn't hurt her yet, hadn't even tempted to threaten her since that one night, two days after he had strung her up outside. She didn't want a repeat, and she was safe, so she could clean herself up regularly, always wear something different. It was amazing, the clothes he had brought in the other night. Pretty things, things she knew were mostly to please his eyes, but he had made sure they were freshly washed, smelt good. She was surprised, to be honest, that he would go through the trouble to dress her up, but she has her own side of the closet now.

She showered, thoroughly like he demanded, and dressed in a pale yellow sun dress and sandals, feeling almost like herself again. She'd never been the tom-boy type, would have preferred to stay inside and play dress up, study, and she was able to almost get back to that now that she was here. No, she wasn't happy. She didn't want to be here, its the apocalypse, but damn she was clean and she had pretty clothes.

"If only I could do my makeup," she murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed to braid her hair.

She jumped when there was a loud thunk against the door, voices slowly climbing into an aggravated roar; _not another fight._

Csilla jumped to her feet, hair abandoned, and slammed into the door, twisting the lock as shadows danced from under the door. She backed away quickly, arms wrapped around herself as she listened to the fight outside. It seemed to carry up and down the hallway, vicious as a pack of dogs, with voices urging them on. They were in the main hallway, so fights were almost regular amongst newer recruits and older members. The younger ones were too hot headed, she could always blame their deaths or injuries on them, always.

But it didn't terrify her any less.

She backed into a corner, trembling slightly; she hated these fights, she wished he wouldn't leave her here alone.

She would rather go with him.

Csilla jumped when a loud bang hit the door, rattling the handle, sending a sharp splinter up the frame from the lock. She eyed the splinter, flinching when it cracked more, reaching towards the ceiling. She jumped onto the bed, over it, and into the closet, unable to shut the door but she wished she could because the door caved in.

She couldn't tell how it caved in, how the three men spilled into the room, but she didn't care. She covered her ears and curled into a ball behind the clothes, squeezing her eyes shut as the men roiled around the room, breaking the lamp, making the room more dim. She could hear them hitting everything, snarling in words she didn't understand; Spanish, she hadn't learned Spanish in boarding school, it was below the family to _learn the language of the gardeners._

She peeked from between her lashes when there was a roar, silencing the hallway, but not the brothers wrestling for the upper hand across the floor of the bedroom.

When he appeared between the throng of people at the door, he was livid. He had blood in his hair and across his brow where a cut had gone untreated, his jacket unbuttoned, Lucille in hand.

When the men didn't stop, his jaw clenched hard and he raised Lucille above his head.

Csilla wanted to close her eyes.

But she couldn't, had the time to and everything as he arched the bat through the air before it embedded on the first hit. She didn't pay attention to who he had struck first, just knew it broke the fight when they realized a brother was screaming in agony. And the bar wouldn't come out. So Negan pulled and then kicked the man in the back, sending blood across the thin carpet between his legs; he was struggling to get away. The other two drug themselves backwards as Negan placed his feet on either side of his rib cage and then began to viciously bring the bat down over and over again onto the first victims head. It bounced against the floor as his cries turned to groans and muffled pants, to gurgles and silence; that was when Negan decided he should stop, heaving a lungful of air as he straightened himself.

He glared at the two men before turning his attention to Csilla, whose foot he spotted slinking back behind the clothes. He leaned Lucille against the dressed to his right, rubbing his hands together as he approached the closet. He crouched down and parted the clothes gently, eyeing the tears and the look of horror mixed with fear. He reached up, jaw flexing as she pulled away, before she allowed him to cradle her naw between his fingers.

"You alright, little bird," he questioned softly, tone soothing.

Csilla hesitated, but then she nodded softly. "Yes," she whispered.

He smiled and pat the side of her face, standing so she had to look up at him. "Good," he turned around, grabbing Lucille. "Lucky she wasn't hurt," he turned to the other two, left trembling on the floor, dignity taken before a cross of people. "But, isn't gonna make this suck any less."

He swung the bat down before Csilla could keep up, her eyes finally snapping close.

* * *

  
Csilla hasn't smoked since she was in high school.

She had been smoking for a week before her mother found her and decided to send her off to a summer camp; she'd been craving one ever since. Today seemed like it would be a perfect excuse to smoke, but she doesn't even when it's offered.

She's standing outside under surveillance, like she would go anywhere else.

She _wouldn't_ go back to Hilltop, _couldn't_ get to the Kingdom, she didn't want to try and make it on her own. The Saviors were all she knew right now, and that was a terrifying thought all on its own.

She's watching the flames climbing from the burn pile in the far back of the compound, against the dark night sky it looks homie, as if it were a bonfire in the backyard, a cooler beside some lawn chairs.

But it was a pile of bodies, and the men smoking around it were anything but hospitable. One wore a bandana of a skull, and it stood out against his already lithe frame making him seem like a skeleton already.

Csilla swallowed thickly and turned away, heading back inside; her watcher didn't follow, she didn't need someone to babysit her inside. People ignored her this time, everyone had seen Negan, had seen him when it came to her even though that was subtle, and they didn't want to provoke him by bothering her this time.

She stopped in front of the shattered door, staring into the dark room, seeing it empty, blood stains on the floor, on the wall; he had really gone all out this time. They had moved to a different room, she knew her way back to it, didn't need to follow him, didn't need a guide. She had wanted to be alone for a moment, breathe, come to terms with what she had seen.

_So close._

_It had been so close._

The room is smaller than before, but it looks like an actual room and not a hollow shell with a bed. The previous room had been a gray shell of concrete and thin, pale cream carpet with a shitty bed and a dresser, a closet without a door. It looked like a serial killers hideout; how ironic. But this room, it was painted and nice, lively, with bookshelves stocked and a cleaner bed in the corner, ferns and nice, leather chairs to sit in by a window opened to clear the stale smell out of the room.

Negan was lying on the bed, fresh from a shower, arm thrown over his eyes as his chest moved up and down evenly. Csilla sat in one of the chairs, a shiver going through her when she noticed the book she had been reading earlier sitting on the coffee table.

Someone _had_ been watching.

"Why ya sittin over there, sunshine," she looked up, seeing him propped up on his hand; she really wished he would put a shirt on. "Come on, beds comfy," he pat the space between him and the wall.

"I would rather not," she murmured, watching his fingers bunch up in the sheets.

"You seem to be under the impression that it was a choice," his voice was low, threatening, eyes clouded.

"I just watched you beat three men to death," she snapped, growing only so bold. "Just. . ." The steam died instantly; she didn't want to turn that wrath upon herself. "Give me a moment," she paused, reaching across to the other seat in front of her, patting the cushion. "Come sit with me over here, I'll read."

That seemed to confused him, but she grabbed her boom and flagged down the page she had left on, returning to the first page when he sat across from her. He was tense, which was unusual. Usually he gave off that nonchalant appearance, loose and fluid, never a hitch in his gait unless he warranted it.

" _I am staring into the hissing face of a cobra. A surprisingly pink tongue slithers in and out of a vicious mouth_. . ."

He sits silently as she reads, staring out the window at the night sky free of distant, flickering planes or satellites. The grounds are silent, save for Csilla's soft voice, surprised he is even sitting here and listening to her. She knows this book well, can read without even needing to see the words, and she takes that moment to observe him.

He looks so lost in thought.

There's a sharp knock at the door and he doesn't flinch, but Csilla does, and adverts her eyes so he doesn't catch her staring. He answers the door and she can't see the other face, doesn't care to, as she flags that chapter and sets the book aside to shower. She keeps her face down as she crosses the room, untying the ribbon around the waist, humming soft beneath her breath so she doesn't hear the door click shut.

A thick arm traps her waist, pulls her back against his chest, hand around her throat, breath on her right ear. She hates that she tremble's, hate how that makes her tingle in places she thought she had control over; but he is taking away all of her control.

"Yeah baby," he murmurs, his breath making her neck scrunch up as best as it can manage with his grip. "Take it off slowly for me. . ."

She swallows around his grip, inhaling sharply when he releases her and sits on the edge of the bed. She doesn't look at him, because she knows she'll cry if she does, and continues to change in a slow manner, wiggling the dress down her hips, leaving her in only her panties as the dress pools around her feet.

He is still silent as he grips her elbow, letting her step out of the dress and brush it aside, pulling her to him, between his legs; she doesn't want to he there.

She braces her hands against his shoulders, looking above his head to the books, afraid to look down as his breath ghosts between her breasts. "Go get in the shower, little bird," he murmurs, lips soft against her skin.

She swallows thickly and nods, finally looking down into such plain eyes that stared at her in a way she hadn't seen projected on her since before the apocalypse. It made her insides twist, gave her a little more strength when she turned away and started for the shower.

She turned on the hot water, wanting to praise the gods for blessing her with warmth, and climbed inside. It was bigger than the other one, of course, but she could tell it had been just a decontamination chamber before; it didn't bother her, more jets to beat against her skin and calm her nerves. There's no door or curtain on the shower, supposed she wouldn't need it anyway, but she would like a little warning before he touches her.

She jerks slightly, but settles with a blank face staring at the opposite wall, feeling his skin against hers, lips against her throat. She tilts her head slightly, giving him more room to work with, closing her eyes when he really gets into it, plucking with his teeth, his lips gentle. He adjusts his footing and she can feel him against the swell of her ass, bites her lip as he finds the sweet spot on the back of her neck, right hand slithering down to cup her pussy possessively and she spreads her legs accordingly. Two fingers enter her and she pitches forward, caught by his left hand that is massaging her breast giving her no route of escape from the overload to her senses when his lips refuse to leave her skin. His fingers move back up to that soft little bundle of nerves at the top of her slit, pushing hard against it, making her moan softly when he pays close attention to what makes her tremble more.

She bucks her hips against his hand, one hand stretching out to the wall, and he pushes her forward to where both hands brace against the wall. He massages her clit for another moment, until her legs are trembling and she whines when he pulls away but she can feel him against her slit and her nails break against the wall.

When he enters her, she slowly lets her head hang, thankful he can't see the ecstasy on her face; it had been so long. Her walls clench reflexively around him, and he groans as he grabs her hips, rocking into her before he pulls out, poised at the tip, teasing her.

"Want it baby," he questions through the dying steam around them. She nods fiercely, cheeks on fire, betrayal to herself in her gut. "How much you want it baby? How bad do you want this cock?"

She swallows and gives up. "Please, Negan," she begs, wanting to rock back against him but he won't let her move. "Please fuck me, please I need it so bad. . ."

He chuckled. "Told you, you'd be begging for my cock soon."

He slammed into her.

Her back arched at the feeling of being so full, stretching around the last inch that hadn't hit her, and he was buried to the hilt. She trembled as he started, one of his hands flattening against the small of her back, other squeezing a heavy handful of her ass. He groaned as she clenched around him again, moans flying from her lips as she clung to the wall, his tip brushing abusively against that spot inside of her, making everything slowly grow white around the edges.

His hand moved up her back, pushing her down until he gripped her hair tightly and pulled back, leaving her moans with nowhere to hide so they echoed against the walls until she was screaming and crying his name and he was pounding into her so hard she knew she would be sore the next day but holy fuck would it be worth it.

He almost came with a roar and stars exploded behind her eyes so she was useless, her face pressed against the cool tiles, panting, her legs weak; he was probably supporting most of her.

She looked back at him, still settled inside of her, and saw him staring at her again in that same way as in the bedroom. It made her swallow, it made her nervous.

Because it was so. . . _reverent_.


End file.
